


Legless

by peanootzramano



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: F/M, References to Depression, References to Drugs, References to anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 10:59:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanootzramano/pseuds/peanootzramano
Summary: "Jake is no stranger to panic attacks. He has had them off and on since the age of nine. "





	Legless

**Author's Note:**

> In which Jake Dillinger's legs aren't as healthy as he would have you believe.
> 
> This story was requested by my dear friend [MsSedusa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsSedusa/profile)! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Jake Dillinger has never really been a fan of coffee shops.

That is not to say that cafes don’t have their own range of merits. From a calming concoction of citrus and cinnamon which scents the claustrophobic air or the speed at which caffeine can be poured into open, talkative mouths; they’re efficient to say the least. It’s just that the queues can be rather imposing – full of power-bottom females with their headsets plastered against their ears and gargantuan families ripe with energetic gremlins which whizz across sticky tile in search of the plastic trucks they have dropped. There is very little room for a 6-foot-3 athlete balancing precariously on well-worn sticks.

And of course, today of all days, there just so happens to be an espresso shortage. But fret not – there will be a delivery any minute now!

At least, that is what Jake was told twenty minutes ago.

He would leave – and it would be so easy to do so, there’s a Starbucks half a block down the street which charges only a dollar more – if it were not for the large, grotesque claws _tearing_ at the sinew of his chest.

Jake is no stranger to panic attacks. He has had them off and on since the age of nine. Brought about from the baritone shift of his father’s weathered voice or the way his mother would load up revolvers at the dinner table. Since their (entirely welcomed) absence, his anxieties would flare up less and less often. And for those rare occasions where his veins would thicken, and his mouth would fill with invincible razorblades, there’s Rich. Handsome, cocky, too-rare-for-life Rich.

But Rich was not here right now. And apparently the undiagnosed phenoms in his head get an absolute _kick_ out of triggering whenever Jake is experiencing crippling levels of pain.

Underneath him he feels as though his legs are _crumbling_. Fragile ribbons of bone being whittled down by those same serrated fangs which rip open his insides. His muscles _pull_ and _shift_ and _twist_ beyond recognition. His tendons snap with such ferocity that he must chew at the doughy inside of his cheek to keep himself from _screaming_ in anguish. How quickly the morphine fades.

He plants his back against the nearest wall, crutches tumbling underneath fingertips suddenly devoid of any strength, and frantically worms numb knuckles into the pocket of his jacket. He wrestles through material and compulsive clutter – just barely brushing against cylindrical plastic before his wrists go horrifyingly limp.

“Shit, no, please…” He murmurs to no one in particular, trying to ignore the way an unidentified child looks up at him in confusion. Theirs eyes liquefying into one limitless malformed mass.

Jake’s stomach flips in on itself – gutless crescendo. By the time he manages to successfully snag his fingertips around the prescription bottle in question, the undiluted _agony_ is in control of his every movement. He is trembling so frantically that he cannot _pop_ the cap without dropping the bottle all together. A hailstorm of brightly coloured capsules bounce triumphantly across the ground; each one travelling further than the last.

“Fuck!”

The tears come before Jake can halt them, that bulb of tortured flesh located within his maw beginning to peel and flood with copper. He flexes his hands in front of him, desperately seeking the return of his painkillers, but he can only manage to cover a pathetic centimetre of unoccupied space. He would bend if his limbs hadn’t completely atrophied from all the _p a i n_.

Silver-tongued serpents have once again begun to coil around his larynx, squeezing and squeezing and _squeezing_ until he can feel every vessel shatter and pop underneath tepid skin and fuck this is how it’s going to end, they’re going to find his crippled body on a scarcely-mopped floor waiting on fucking espresso of all things all because he can’t take his fucking morphine pil-

“Jake?”

Jeremy’s voice is small. Unmistakably so. Familiar in a way which pours delicious oxygen into Jake’s otherwise flaccid lungs. He brings forth a certain _light_ from within Jake which had been temporarily lost in this circumstance of utmost terror. He clutches at warm Styrofoam (undoubtedly housing a strange herbal tea) with both of his hands and stares at Jake as though he were a fractured image of someone Jeremy vaguely recognizes.

And he _is_.

It is hard to identify Jake like this – a shadow of his former self – his edges frayed and dripping with an alien _angst_ the likes of which Jeremy would have never attributed to the all-star athlete. His confidence has been completely siphoned free. His lungs corroded by something undetectable. His tears are like tar on fair lashes and his lower lip trembles with the weight of keeping himself cemented firmly together.

And then he’s smiling. One of those signature Jake Dillinger smiles. Colgate and porcelain. Only…  such visual stimulation does not quite touch the horror fragmented in his eyes.

“Hey Jeremy. How’s it goin’ dude?”

Jeremy’s instincts have always lacked a certain accuracy; a corruption of skewed readings which have yet to meet their intended target.  Perhaps the spiderwebs crocheted around Jake’s every vowel are simply from the surprise of meeting a friend at such an impromptu location. Nothing more.

“Yeah, good!” He chirrups, bending down to gather the luminescent pills scattered like diamonds on discoloured tile. “What happened to you? I-I just mean… I didn’t know you still used your crutches, that’s all.”

Jake doesn’t have a moment to formulate a reliable answer before Jeremy finds his prescription bottle hidden in the corner.

Jake Dillinger. Morphine. Take as required.

Jake. Dillinger.  


Morphine.

Take. As. Required.

And by the look of absolute _agony_ in his eyes – it is absolutely fucking _required_.

“Jake-“

“Please don’t say anything to Rich.”

Jeremy finds his footing rather easily ( _his_ legs aren’t fucked beyond repair, after all!) and links his fingertips tightly throughout the spaces of Jake’s own; marble on granite. They find a booth over in the corner, free from infantile googly eyes and tight-lipped princess negotiating raises they absolutely do not need. Jeremy presses two violet pills into Jake’s palm and watches with morbid fascination as he swallows them dry; two fat lumps tenting his throat as they dance down past his Adam’s apple.

Jake’s hands continue to tremble but Jeremy cradles them as though he were made from glass, tracing concentric circles on the back of his wrist.

“So,” Jeremy begins, clearing his throat. “Why do you need to take morphine?”

He knows the answer. _Of course_ he does. But he needs to hear the words tumble from Jake’s own lips to solidify their meaning.

A cornucopia of intoxicated vowels and consonants saturate Jake’s dishevelled psyche, battling against demons which spit their grit onto corrupted thoughts and misappropriated memories. He licks his lips slowly – as though the moisture will somehow flavour the admissions he is about to make. Turn them from soil to sugar.

“I’ve been in physical therapy. Since the… you know.” Tight. His throat feels so tight. “Rich thinks I stopped going months ago. That’s what I told him. I know I shouldn’t lie to him…”

Jake presses his thumbs so hard into his temples that he is certain they will dissolve into his waterlogged brain. Stir up the grease located there. Jeremy simply smiles, running his fingers up and down the length of Jake’s knuckles; the epitome of patience.

“My legs never got stronger and. Look, I don’t _want_ to lie to him. I just don’t want him to blame himself.  Which he will. He already does. For everything that happened. And that wasn’t his fault, dude. It was mine. I should’ve been a better friend. Listened to him more or something. I can’t have him taking his on his shoulders, too.”

The sensation of water dappled on elevated cheekbones is less surprising this time. His flesh feels _filthy_ , contaminated in a way which cannot be purified through suds and sensation. This grime can only be cleansed through vocabulary, an open heart to console and ears to listen.

“I just love him so much, you know? He’s so fucking awesome, dude. I really don’t know what I’d do without him and it’s just so fucking hard keeping this from him. I don’t want to but I… I need to, man. It’s my job to make sure I don’t fuck up like that again. I gotta keep him safe. He’s my Rich.”

Jeremy’s thumbs are impossibly warm where they stroke across Jake’s flesh. Silky smooth, they clear every swollen droplet which threatens to fall onto marble table. He keeps his voice so wonderfully soft. Angelic. Providing absolution with his mere tone.

“I completely understand, Jake. I won’t breathe a word to him. Under one condition.”

Jake’s eyes flicker up to meet Jeremy’s own; oceanic curiosity. “Anything.”

“You’ve got to come to me if you ever need, like, anything. No matter what or when or how. Okay?”

Another one of those Jake Dillinger smiles. Diamond and Crest.

“Thank you! Thank you so much.”

Jake doesn’t need steady fingertips to hold Jeremy’s chin between padded thumbs. And for a moment – wonderfully fleeting – the anticipation of morphine takes a backseat to the texture of soft lips moulding sweetly together.

Jeremy tastes of chamomile and lavender and somewhere in the distance he can hear a barista call his name.

 

 


End file.
